


walked right into the line of fire

by Skylark, Swiftling (Skylark)



Series: SASO 2015 [9]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Awkwardness, Baby Showers, Biting, Condoms, Explicit Consent, Hair-pulling, Kink Negotiation, Lapdance, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Canon, Protected Sex, Sex Work, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 15:55:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5010781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylark/pseuds/Skylark, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylark/pseuds/Swiftling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kuroo Tetsurou is a professional.</p>
            </blockquote>





	walked right into the line of fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fabflyingfox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabflyingfox/gifts).



> [Original prompt](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/7182.html?thread=2551310#cmt2551310). Please forgive any/all sex worker industry inaccuracies. Despite how much this fic pokes fun, I wrote this while listening to indie music and the [title's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OODspN6irIc) from indie pop, too.

Kuroo Tetsurou is a professional.

He is a professional, he tells himself, as he checks the address in the e-mail for the fifth time. That means he's always on time to his appointments. That means he's in-character before the client lays eyes on him. That means he's not at all fazed by the fact that he's standing on an apartment's doorstep at _ten in the morning_ and that the faint music trickling under the door sounds like raspy indie pop. Kuroo's ears have picked up two banjo solos so far.

He can make that work for him, Kuroo thinks to himself. He is super hot and has an excellent sense of rhythm besides.

He sets his shoulders back and slips his trademark smirk on his face before ringing the doorbell. "I'll get it!" a female voice calls from inside.

Kuroo blinks. That is _not_ what the e-mail said. His smile freezes in place but inside he's stewing: he hates it when clients break contracts, he's going to have to find a way to bow out of this gracefully, the hour train ride here was all for nothing.

The door swings open and he looks up. He's not sure who between them looks more surprised. Kuroo's in a tight black leather jacket and slashed jeans, with a face mask to ward off the early-autumn chill. Meanwhile, the woman in front of him is dressed in pretty pastels and she's...going to be a mother soon, if the size of her stomach is anything to go by.

He slips the mask from his mouth. "Excuse me," he says, using the gentle tone he reserves for children and cats, "is...Tou-kun here?"

"Oh, you're one of Tooru's friends? I'm his sister. Tooru!" she calls over her shoulder, "you didn't tell me one of your friends was coming."

She steps back, allowing Kuroo inside. He hears footsteps coming down the hall and wonders what a guy who schedules a lap dance during his pregnant sister's party would look like. "Pardon the intrusion," Kuroo murmurs before kneeling down to remove his boots. 

"Neechan, who is it? I didn't—"

Kuroo glances up at the familiar voice. His fingers freeze on his boot laces.

"Kuroo Tetsurou?" Oikawa asks, sounding faint. "From Nekoma?"

Kuroo's mouth works for a second before he composes himself. Pointedly he says, "We talked a bit over e-mail, didn't we? About _meeting up_ today."

Something flickers in Oikawa's expression. Kuroo's not surprised he's so quick on the uptake, considering his reputation. "Oh, yes!" he says, his cheer as immediate as it is false. "You're a bit _early_ though, aren't you?"

"I'm right on time," Kuroo retorts.

Oikawa's sister is looking back and forth between the two of them, looking gradually more suspicious. "Did you guys have a fight?" she says.

"No!" they both snap.

Oikawa glances away and takes a deep breath. When he looks back, his smile is breezy and relaxed. "Kuroo-kun," he says, "why don't you come in? We were just about to cut the cake."

It isn't the first time Kuroo's ever eaten cake while on a job, but it is the first time the cake has had hand-frosted baby booties on it.

\--

"So Nekoma's captain is a stripper now?" Oikawa says once everyone has left. His cheery tone does nothing to hide the sharpness of his words.

Kuroo agreed to help Oikawa clean up so that everyone else could leave, and is now pulling paper streamers off the couch. "And you can't keep your own appointments," Kuroo replies without looking up. "Your e-mail said 10 AM."

"It did _no_ —"

Kuroo whips his phone out of his pocket, unlocks it, and shoves it in Oikawa's face with the speed of someone who has just suffered through two hours of people happily discussing baby names while listening to unoffensive indie music. Oikawa flinches back before reaching out with one finger to gingerly scroll through the e-mail.

"...Oh my god," Oikawa says in a small voice.

"You're way over time, by the way," Kuroo says. "Don't think I'm not charging you for this."

"I meant ten _PM_ ," Oikawa says, but the ire in his voice has been replaced by mortification. "Oh my god. I'm sorry. We can—you didn't have to stay this long. You can go, if you want."

Kuroo shoves his armful of collected streamers into the garbage can under the sink. "Does this mean you don't want me to dance for you anymore? There's an additional cancellation fee for that."

Oikawa stares at him from across the room. "You're kidding."

"I'm a _professional_ ," Kuroo snaps, straightening and folding his arms. "When you hire me, you get what you pay for."

Oikawa's eyes narrow, speculative. "A professional stripper," he says.

"The term's 'male performer,'" Kuroo sighs, walking back towards the couch, "but you know what, close enough. Get off your high horse, anyway, you're the one who _hired_ me."

Oikawa turns red. "You're the one who crashed my sister's baby shower!"

" _You're_ the one who invited me in," Kuroo drawls. He's grinning now; back-and-forth banter is comfortably familiar territory. He steps forward until he's in Oikawa's personal space, his hips jutted forward in clear invitation with his thumbs hooked through his belt loops. "Seems like you're the one who didn't want me to leave."

Oikawa's slightly shorter but Kuroo's slouching, so he's able to look Kuroo in the eye without tipping his chin up. He doesn't back up but he takes in a short breath at the closeness, his teeth worrying at his lower lip.

That won't do. Uncomfortable customers give shitty tips. Kuroo tips his head to the side, dragging his eyes down Oikawa's body. "Then again," he says, "I kind of wanted to stay." Oikawa's eyes widen at that, and Kuroo's smirk broadens.

Kuroo steps forward again, nudging Oikawa back towards the couch. "What's a handsome guy like you doing hiring someone like me, anyway?" Kuroo says. "I bet you could get anyone you wanted."

Oikawa's smile turns sharp, self-mocking, even as he allows Kuroo to push him back. "I don't like attachments."

Kuroo hums. "I can appreciate that." 

"What about you, stripper-san? What brings you to this business?"

"I like mixing work and pleasure," Kuroo replies, which is the answer he always gives when he's asked. Oikawa's eyes narrow, and something in the look prompts an extra push of honesty. Maybe it's their shared history, or maybe it's the fact that he's just spent an entire afternoon in the midst of Oikawa's private life, watching him give genuine smiles to people he actually cares about. 

Kuroo shifts to a more neutral expression and steps around Oikawa to sit on the couch. "I'm good at reading people. It's interesting work, I have a good time, and it pays the bills. Law school isn't cheap."

"Law school?" Oikawa seems to consider this. He's more relaxed now that Kuroo is below his eye level, which doesn't surprise Kuroo at all. "So stripper-san has brains as well as looks."

"Tetsurou," Kuroo offers. Oikawa blinks at him, and Kuroo rolls his eyes. "If you won't call me Kuroo, at least call me that." He leans forward, splaying his fingertips across the narrow stretch of Oikawa's hips, and watches the look in his eyes shift from surprise to cautious interest.

"Your e-mail said to call you something different," Oikawa says, but the corner of his mouth is tilted upward. Kuroo chuckles.

"You can call me whatever you want," he says, his gaze going heavy-lidded as he smiles up at Oikawa. "Why don't you sit down? You've got a nice couch, it'd be a shame for me to enjoy it all by myself." 

Oikawa huffs a laugh at Kuroo's awful and transparent flirting, and some of the tension around his mouth eases.

Kuroo thumbs the arch of Oikawa's hipbones. "Come on, take a load off," he murmurs. His voice drops to a low purr. "Let me give you your money's worth."

Oikawa finally allows himself to be pulled down onto the couch. Kuroo climbs into his lap, bracing his hands against Oikawa's shoulders and the sofa behind them, spreading his thighs wide to bracket Oikawa's waist.

"Better, right?" Kuroo says, settling back so that his weight pins Oikawa's legs. He shimmies a little, getting comfortable, and grins at the slow flush that fans up Oikawa's neck and across his cheeks. 

The hesitation fades from Oikawa's eyes to be replaced with that firm determination that Kuroo's seen before, on TV news clips and across gymnasiums. Oikawa's hands rise to grab a hold of Kuroo's hips, fingers digging into the curve of his ass. Kuroo grins, tipping his head back to expose his throat, and begins to reach for the metal pull on his zipper. Then he pauses.

"...Unless you'd like to do the honors?" he says. He expects Oikawa to laugh or turn red again. Instead he gets a long, measuring look that makes the grin fade from his face.

"Actually," Oikawa says, "yes, I would."

Kuroo's breath shallows as Oikawa lifts one hand to catch hold of the dangling tab. He pulls it down without hurry, and they both listen to the slow tick of each zipper tooth releasing. Kuroo isn't wearing anything beneath the hoodie, and his skin is revealed by milimeters, the exposed v of his flesh expanding bit by bit as Oikawa pulls down.

Kuroo's eyes rise to meet Oikawa's gaze, now dark with intent, and then flick down to his lips. He has a policy—no kissing when he's working—but he can't stop himself from wondering what they would taste like. He imagines a fading sweetness from the cake and shivers despite himself.

"Are you cold, Tetsurou?" Oikawa's voice is weighted with desire. Kuroo shivers again at the way Oikawa's slight Miyagi accent curls around the syllables of his first name.

The hoodie is fully open now, the zippered edges brushing cold metal shocks against Kuroo's chest when he moves. Kuroo tips forward until their noses are almost brushing. "Just enjoying myself," he whispers. "Hey, do you have any music?"

Oikawa blinks at him, the predatory look in his eyes fading. Kuroo's answering smile is lopsided.

"I mean, I could make up my own music to dance to," Kuroo says, "but I can promise you don't want to hear me sing."

Oikawa snorts. "I'd have to get up," he says with a meaningful bounce of his thighs. The movement makes Kuroo's thighs tighten, reflexive, to hold Oikawa in place.

Their eyes lock. Kuroo grins.

"You're not going anywhere," he confirms. "I'll get it. What do you need? Your phone?"

"The remote." Oikawa gestures behind Kuroo to the black remote on the coffee table. "Just let m—"

Oikawa's voice goes high and sharp on the last syllable before cutting off entirely. Without preamble Kuroo has bent backwards, stretching his arms above his head to snatch it off the table. He feels Oikawa's hands seize his hips again, as if afraid he'll fall without the added support.

Kuroo tries to chuckle but the strain of the position causes it to get caught in his throat. Once he's got a hold on the remote he pulls himself back upright slowly, letting Oikawa watch the ripple of his abs from the effort, and draw his own conclusions as to how useful Kuroo's flexibility might be in other situations. When Kuroo is settled in Oikawa's lap again, he's a little breathless and bright-eyed from the exertion, and Oikawa's jaw has sagged open.

"I told you, you're in for a ride," he says. "Here."

Oikawa takes the remote from his hands without taking his eyes from Kuroo's face. His expression is more relaxed than before, though no less calculating. A few clicks later and there's something slow and sultry coming from the speakers, the low bassline weaving its way through the beat.

"Oh, yeah," Kuroo says. He can feel his whole body relaxing into the rhythm. It's so much easier when he's got some good background music. "I can work with this."

The secret to a good lap dance, he's learned, is in the sway. He squirms as if he's settling the kinks from his spine, as if he's making himself at home in Oikawa's lap. Then he starts to move back and forth, his eyes locked onto Oikawa's like a snake watching its charmer, turning the song into a slow liquid roll that starts with the backwards tilt of his head, moves through his shoulders, and ends in a tiny, sharp switch of his hips against Oikawa's thighs.

"I don't think I need this anymore," he says, long fingers tangling in the drawstring of his hoodie. "What do you think?"

Oikawa doesn't need to be asked twice. His hands rise from Kuroo's hips to slip beneath the cloth covering his shoulders, tracing across his body. Kuroo is not soft at all—he's all solid muscle laid over bone, and he can feel Oikawa mapping out the breadth of his frame, the latent strength of his deltoids and biceps, as he pushes the hoodie from his shoulders and down his arms.

Kuroo can barely hear the rustle of fabric hitting the floor; the music drowns it out.

"Much better," Kuroo murmurs. "Don't you agree?"

Oikawa's eyes are riveted upon him as he dances, drinking in the small details: low light sliding across his skin, the way a tendon stands out in his throat when he turns his head. Kuroo leans forward and presses his hands to Oikawa's belt buckle, his hips tilting back. The movement makes Kuroo's back arch deeply, brings his mouth close to Oikawa's ear as his fingers map out the length of him beneath his pressed slacks.

"Do you like this?" Kuroo breathes against the sensitive hollow below Oikawa's ear, his hands lightly stroking. 

Oikawa shivers, his hands resting on Kuroo's flanks, and then nods. 

"Good, good," Kuroo says. "But I want to make you feel even better."

He doesn't give Oikawa a chance to answer, instead leaning forward and fixing his teeth against the lobe of his ear. Oikawa groans for the first time, his head tipping back. Kuroo shifts forward to press his open mouth against his neck, half-kiss, half-bite. Nothing that would leave a mark, of course—just enough to make sensation flash across the surface of his skin. 

"I'm dying to get my mouth on this," he says, grinding the heel of his hand against Oikawa's slacks. "What do you think?"

Oikawa's hips buck beneath him and Kuroo gives a breathless small laugh, leaning back.

"Take these off for me," Kuroo tells him, digging in his back pocket for a condom. "Can you do that?"

"Yeah," Oikawa gasps, and Kuroo watches his hands shake as he undoes his belt buckle and opens his slacks. Kuroo takes it from there, sliding from his lap onto the floor and drawing his clothes down his legs as Oikawa lifts his hips up.

His slacks and boxer briefs puddle around his ankles and Kuroo settles himself between Oikawa's spread thighs. He rests his hands on Oikawa's knees and slowly draws them up. Oikawa's hair is fine, dusting darker across his shinbones, and his thighs are even paler than the rest of him, heavy with muscle. An athlete's legs, slim but strong. 

Kuroo leans over to bite one, since Oikawa seemed to like it when he did that earlier. Oikawa's hips jump beneath his hands and he can hear a strangled curse from above his head.

"Good, huh?" Kuroo says, and then bites again. "Do you want me to go harder? Softer? Tell me how you like it."

Oikawa's lips are red from his own teeth when Kuroo looks up again. His eyes are a little unfocused from sensation but more than that they seem to burn with desire. "Harder," he hisses. "You can leave marks if it's there."

Kuroo's lips curve, his fingers flexing claw-like into the meat of Oikawa's thighs. "O ho," he says, "you're a wild one, aren't you?"

So Kuroo gets to work: sharp nips lower on the thighs that settle into long, hard sucking at the juncture where the hip meets the thigh. It's still not enough to leave marks, at least not lasting ones—very few people like it _that_ hard, and he's not going to risk losing a potential repeat customer just to see if he's an outlier. Oikawa doesn't tell him to go harder, anyway. He can hear his breath going heavy and labored above him, listens to the shaky whine that spills from Oikawa's lips as much as he feels out the trembling beneath his hands.

Then he feels hands threading through his hair. Oikawa uses the grasp to lift Kuroo's head up until they're staring at each other. Oikawa's hands tug a little, not enough to hurt but enough to ask a silent question. Kuroo swallows against the pulse of desire that runs through him in response.

"Yeah," he agrees, even though Oikawa hasn't said anything. "I like that." His mouth tilts into a smirk. "You're not the only wild one here."

It's the work of a moment to slide the condom onto Oikawa's length. Kuroo doesn't use the flavored kinds, because he loves himself, but every sex worker develops condom preferences after a while. The taste of this one isn't thrilling, but giving head sure is—especially to someone like Oikawa, who he's always thought was more than he seemed.

Oikawa's hold on his hair firms when he's done. Kuroo's mouth opens willingly as Oikawa guides him onto his dick, tongue lolling out with eagerness. Oikawa's much politer about this than others he's worked with: he doesn't shove, and he allows Kuroo time to get used to the heft and size of him inside his mouth. But the pressure on Kuroo's head, while slow, is still inorexable.

Kuroo can't help but moan around the thick mouthful he's got as Oikawa pushes him down onto it. His hands dig in, anchoring himself, the thin plastic warming between the dual heat of Oikawa's body and his own mouth.

Condoms make it harder; the sensation is dulled. But Kuroo's always liked a good challenge, sucking on the tip to make Oikawa curl over with near-overstimulation, relaxing his throat so that his lips can stretch filthily around the base. Mostly, though, he lets Oikawa run the show. Oikawa knows what he likes and he's clear with what he wants Kuroo to do, and when. Kuroo adds his own flair here and there but mostly listens to the tempo of the almost-forgotten music and the rising pace of Oikawa's heavy breathing, feeling for the telltale tremble of Oikawa's thighs.

"Tetsurou," Oikawa gasps, a warning, before he comes. Kuroo's eyes drop half-lidded with satisfaction, tonguing gently at the underside, holding Oikawa in his mouth, the tip of the condom filling with pulse after pulse. Oikawa's hands clutch in his hair, too far gone to be polite. Kuroo takes it as a compliment.

Eventually Oikawa's hands slide free of his hair and he slumps back onto the couch, still catching his breath. Kuroo rises to his feet, masking a wince at the stiffness of his knees, and fishes around until he finds a bathroom and a washcloth. He comes back and wipes Oikawa down, gently removing the condom and tossing it into a nearby wastecan. 

Once clean-up's done he sits down next to Oikawa on the couch, listening to his calming breaths. His dick is pressing insistently against his tight jeans. He can feel Oikawa staring at it.

"Um..." Oikawa swallows, his brow furrowing. "You..."

"Don't worry about it," Kuroo says, waving a hand. "I'll just consider it a party favor."

Oikawa's face goes a little pale. Then he's punching Kuroo's arm and gasping, "Oh my god, oh my god you _asshole,_ I can't believe you just brought the _baby shower_ into this—"

Kuroo's laughing, holding up hands in mock self-defense. Oikawa starts punching at those instead, more mortified than angry. "Besides," Kuroo says—and then he hesitates—"besides, if you wanted, you could always pay me back another time."

Oikawa's punches stop immediately, and his head comes up. 

Kuroo looks down at the small space between them on the couch. He tries to force a laugh, but it comes out a hiccup.

"You mean to hire you again?" Oikawa says, in a tone that says he knows exactly what Kuroo meant.

"Whatever you want," Kuroo said. "I'd be down for that."

"What do _you_ want?" Oikawa asks, and Kuroo blinks at him. It's not a question he gets in this line of work very often.

Kuroo simply says, "I want to see you again."

Oikawa's eyes narrow, speculative. "So if I asked you to dinner, you'd say yes?"

"Why don't you try it and find out?"

"Will you go out with me?"

"Will you get mad if we don't have sex after?" Kuroo immediately retorts.

"No."

Kuroo's next question is quieter. "But would you be okay if we did? And you wouldn't be weird about it?"

Oikawa cocks his head. "Weird how?"

"I'm not quitting my job just because you take me out to dinner once or twice," Kuroo says.

Oikawa thinks about it. Kuroo is somehow gratified by the delay in response, the serious consideration. "It's just dinner," he says. "You've got my interest, but it's nothing serious. Is it?"

Now it's Kuroo's turn to think about it. As he considers, Oikawa reaches for the forgotten remote control and turns the music off. The silence returns Oikawa's living room to an ordinary, unremarkable space. The kind of room where you could gather your family and friends and celebrate milestones with cake and presents.

Kuroo laughs and extends his hand. "I feel like we've done this all backwards," he says, "but at least we'll have a hell of a get-together story."

"This isn't the kind of story I'd tell anyone," Oikawa retorts, but his hand slips into Kuroo's, and it seems okay like this.

Kuroo checks his watch and rises from the couch with a sigh. The hand-hold lingers for a moment longer before it slips free. "I have to go," he says.

"I'll see you out," Oikawa says, handing him his hoodie off of the floor.

"Might want to take care of that first," he says, pointing to Oikawa's bare legs. Oikawa colors, hastily yanking his pants up as Kuroo laughs.

 

He sends Oikawa the bill when he gets home. Oikawa pays immediately, in full, and without protest. _A good sign,_ Kuroo thinks.

\--

Oikawa 10:53PM  
I found a good ramen place last week. Do you want to go?

Kuroo 10:55  
ramen, how fancy.

Oikawa 10:59  
is that a yes?

Kuroo 10:59  
yes. ;)


End file.
